Just Noticing, Part 3

Our week was a filled with friends from out of town, a family-day poetry reading at our son’s school, and an international evening, which featured a Haitian dance with Mark Anthony's comrades on stage. Taken by Mark Anthony's poetry reading, and since our daily Lenten practice had fallen off a bit, we decided to do our noticing of God's presence through poetry. Mark Anthony's poem about dad shows his admiration as well as the fact that he notices quite a bit about what his father does. (There is no poem about his mother, but I can hope, at least, that another muse will call one out someday. ) --kbj

Things to Do if You Are a Priest
Write a sermon
Take some trips
Go to hospitals and jail
Give me lots of bread
Go on TV
Write books
And get them published
At six o'clock you pray
At the first light
--Mark Anthony Bozzuti-Jones

Mark Sr.'s poem centered on noticing the two fantastic flower buds in our home -- just waiting to burst into life. One is an amaryllis I had given Mark as a gift some time ago; I admit, I've been noticing its floppy, ugly leaves for quite a while and have been tempted to show it the door more than once. But Mark knew differently... and he wrote a poem about it:

Two Plants Blooming
In our apartment
the plants surprised
To delighted and un-expecting eyes:
Behold the blooming
My wife had given me an amaryllis two years ago
It had a flower then
Since then, I have heard,
"Throw it out!"
"It will never bloom again."
And now I noticed
And I showed it to my son
and wife
A bud, a bud -- and
beneath the gentle green
skin -- a sign, a
color of things to come.
And another plant, I do
not know its name.
After three years decided
to flower (it's above the drying machine)
These plants are blooming
in captivity
Wow! and blooming after
a long time...
Noticing is best when
matched with patient
waiting and hope expecting hope.
--Mark F. Bozzuti-Jones

It took me a while to decide on a poem topic, let alone write a poem on demand (it takes me a while to write anything; as a former editor, I can't write three words without returning to change them.) This time, it was different, though. I decided to simply record what I saw and felt on my way to work in poetic prose -- an unedited report of what I usually miss out on, in my daily rushing about:

All God
The way my husband woke us up gently and had
coffee all ready for his staggering wife.

The way our son ate muffins and oatmeal
and then asked for the 'heart-healthy' cereal in my bowl,
(the cure for middle-age hypochondria,) before I'd taken a bite.
And then asked for the wheat toast I was going to eat instead.
I felt like a mother bird.
Only not regurgitating my breakfast.

The way my hands felt when I forgot to put cream on
them, crunchy, at that final moment before flying from the house
to beat the clanging bell in the school yard. 

The way a tiny perching bird caught our attention.
It stopped and stared at us on a fence not six inches away,
causing our son to ponder whether he had been
mistaken for St. Francis.

The way the shadows walked with me
and away from me, as I faced into the sun
on my way to the subway; some were being pushed along;
others trailed behind.

The way graffiti nearly leapt off the mailboxes
as I passed. Brilliant colors of pink and white and
turquoise, making them look more like art than prank.
I'd wished I'd had my camera.

The way the train arrived just as I descended the last
step. Just for me. And a free seat, too. No sweaty jostling.
So that I could sit down and think a bit.

The way my homework was niggling at my brain,
still undone, and little chance of being finished
before the next class meeting.

The way a small baby girl laughed out loud
on her mother's knee, surrounded by sour commuter faces,
cranky or tired -- and oblivious Kindle readers.

The way a man stared at me on the train
and kept staring as if I hadn't stares back, challenging,
as I listened to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah"
on my Ipod. He stared again. I stared him down again.

The way a piece of hair was stuck on my dry
cuticle and refused to let go as I made some notes
for my work day. And my second toe rubbed against my shoe
as usual.

The way I could tell we'd arrived at Grand Central
without even checking the signal or listening
to the announcement. And the man continued
to stare. (I think I watch too many detective programs.)

The way my three and four-year old students
made me laugh when they wanted to discuss
the Big Bang theory and humans descending
from primates, as I read them the Creation story.

The way that being on time for school drop off
and pickup framed my day, again, and hindered my noticing.
And how it transformed into joy, again, when I saw the face
of a glowing child eager to tell, in great detail,
his sports prowess of the day.

The way I notice how
all this noticing
may or may not be edifying...
Still, I am sure, without a trace of doubt,
that it is all God, the One who never said s/he'd
promised us roses. Just the grace (just!)
to be the unfailing and unconditional lover
in the dailiness of our dailiness.
--Kathy Bozzuti-Jones